My boyfriend stole me a bracelet from Camden Market today. He took it from a Chinese woman's stall, lit up with handpainted mirrors and geisha dolls. One hand reveals, the other conceals: he pocketed it while asking the price.
The bracelet has three teeth hanging from a beaded string. I picture an unfortunate urban fox, its life of blood and adrenaline cut with more violence - its meat for the takeaways, its bones for the jewellery and medicine.
How much more authentic is this than the lucky Chinese symbols made of brass? The latter, the sum of human hope and greed; the former, what remains of a life lived into every inch, stained with the blood of a hundred rats.
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